The teacher asked us to take notes.
I had no idea what she meant by that.
Pauli saw the panic.
She met me where I was.
She calmed me down and step-by-step, taught me how.
I will never, ever forget her kindness.
“Look for the helpers.” Mr. Rogers said.
I did.
And I still am.
In fact, I’ve become one.
“Just pick up fast food!”
My husband was out of town.
Gosh, if only it were that easy.
I feel like I’ve spent adulthood explaining this notion of “privilege” without realizing I’ve even done so.
Fast food?
That’s privilege, at least for my family.
We have a child with severe food allergies so “fast food” is not an option.
Instead, we have to plan painstakingly ahead.
“You were meant to be her mother.”
Was I, really?
What did I do in my past life to deserve this honor?
That’s what I would like to know.
It’s not her fault and it’s not mine either, or maybe it is- I don’t even know anymore.
What I DO know is that giving grace to any and everyone is the very best thing we can ever do.
Because, how otherwise, could we ever truly know their story?
We cannot.
So, we give grace.
Always, we give grace.
Dear Daughter,
As your grandfather reaches the end of his life, I find myself craving more.
More time. More information. What was his life really like? How did he come to be who he is today?
So, I figured I’d make it a little easier on you.
I was born in the early 1980s, when TVs still had antennas, or as we liked to call them: rabbit ears.
If the show was fuzzy, I had to get up and move the rabbit ears to try and get the station back in tune.
There was no remote. Instead, I had to get up and turn the knob for the very few channels available to us.
There was no choosing what we wanted to watch. We watched what the stations offered.
Sometime in the 1990s, we got a tv with a remote and cable which offered a lot more channels. Still, we found out what was playing by reading the newspaper, The Virginian Pilot, which printed a schedule of shows by the hour.
I vividly remember channel 99 because we didn’t “subscribe” to that channel but there was a lot of moaning and an occasional boob or two amidst the fuzziness- chaotic, zig-zag lines that perpetually moved down the screen so you couldn’t get a clear view. I was equally confused and fascinated, wondering what these people were doing.
Yikes. Now, I know.
My grandmother had a rotary phone- one where the numbers were displayed in a circle formation and you rotated the dial on the front for each number. I loved it when someone had a nine in their number because I got to move the dial almost a full 360 degrees!
We had a phone with a very long cord so that my teenage sisters could walk into another room from the kitchen and close the door to have their private conversations.
Sometime in the 1990s, the “sneaker phone” was all the rage and boy, you know I had one, too! It looked like a shoe but was actually a phone (with a cord of course)! That was the bees knees.
When I heard a song on the radio that I loved, I had to quickly find a blank cassette tape to record the song if I wanted to be able to hear it again. Cassette tapes were four inch long plastic cases that held magnetic recording tape. Sometimes, I accidentally recorded over another song that I loved and there was no going back. Once it was replaced, it was gone.
I lost many a tragic recordings to this oversight.
I also eventually got a boombox that had TWO cassette tape players, which meant I could copy one tape to the other, making “mix tapes” for my friends. I would create a playlist of my favorite songs, decorate the plastic cover, paper insert and plastic case and give it to them as a sign of my love and friendship. It took a long time, so it was a gift from the heart.
The same went for movies. We had VHS tapes, not DVDs. If you wanted to jump to a certain part of the movie, you had to fast-forward. If you wanted to go back and re-watch, you had to rewind. It wasn’t as easy as choosing a “scene”, so you really had to want it to make the effort.
I think that’s what I’m learning from my dad.
He was born in 1931.
Everything took more effort, then.
And even in the 1980s, things took more time.
Now, it’s faster.
And yet, I frequently feel the need to slow down.
Your dad, born in the 1970s, really works hard to keep you all grounded.
To keep you playing outside.
Often shoeless.
So, when things feel too fast.
Cast off those shoes.
Head outside.
Remember where you came from.
And slow down.
Dear Daughter,
Stay grounded.
I was in the room when the doctor announced “There appears to be a mass behind your aorta.”
My father is an intelligent man and although we spent the rest of the week in the hospital for the biopsy and a week more for results, we both knew.
Fucking cancer.
I wish I had words for the experience of breath leaving your body.
It’s as if time stops.
Short enough for no one else to notice but long enough to recognize when it begins again.
She left the room.
And we just stared at one another, half smiling.
“So this is how it ends.” He almost chuckled.
Even when you’re 91, you never expect it.
And ignorantly, neither did I.
Weeks later we were having breakfast together, discussing death (as one does when upon death’s door) when he did one of my favorite things:
He spoke in poetry.
“Death, be no proud, though some have called thee . . .”
I asked him if he had a copy of the poem and he described the color, size and feel of the book I should look for on the wall-to-wall bookshelf.
I found it, along with many of his other favorite poems and (as one does when upon death’s door), I asked him to share.
Because at the end, isn’t that what we all seek?
Time to share.
Time.
Let us share.
“This is my dad,”
I introduce my step-dad to my boarding school Headmistress.
“And this is my Dick.”
I introduce my biological father.
We all inwardly and outwardly cringe.
“I mean, this is Dick. My father. Dick Parise.”
Crawl in a hole. Die. I’m 15. Please, just let me go ahead and die.
Here they both are- a rare moment- both of my fathers.
The one who created me and the one who raised me.
A chuckle. A laugh. An inward mortification. We move on to pleasantries.
But then came my wedding less than a decade a later.
I’d always imagined both of them on each arm.
But then he said, after their divorce, “You know that would be hard for me.”
I paused and reconsidered the definition of “dad”.
And then, I walked down the aisle with my father.
It’s been a lifetime of regret
For a crime I never committed.
I was born.
The illegitimate of a love affair.
Forever, a child, apologizing for my existence.
I’m so sorry.
And yet, Here I Am.
You’ve welcomed and accepted me,
Flaws, painful memories and all.
I’m so sorry.
I was born.
It’s been a lifetime.
But, here I am.
Here I am.
I used to feel so uncomfortable
With Gray.
Black and White were concrete, comforting.
But Gray, blurred the lines.
And I sought certainty.
Anyone with children will explain how humbling it is to feel powerless
Be it the pregnancy, the birth, the unexpected complications or simply the milestones
All of a sudden, you are no longer in control.
I spent a long time fighting the current
But started to enjoy the ride once I let it lead.
And that’s my approach to life these days.
There’s no need to know what comes next;
Instead, let’s wait and see.
Destination unknown.
Gray.
Let me tell you about this man:
My husband, Emmett, who turns 50 years amazing today.
If you’re lucky enough to know Emmett, you know ease and joy
Because that is what he embodies.
Life is fairly simple, when you allow it to be so.
The only other man I knew to be just like him was his father.
Happiness and joy begets the same.
Spending time with his family is like a warm hug.
And so is spending time with my husband.
My love, our joy.
Happy Birthday, my darling.
We are all lucky to have you.
She called it what it is:
Grief.
I had never associated that word with what I had been feeling but it all clicked into place.
Grief can be due to a loss of any kind: a loved one, job, marriage, friendship or a major life change.
What I had been feeling was grief!
I described how desperate I had been to make sense of it all and store it neatly in its box.
I’m a writer: I like a good ending.
And this . . . this just carried on.
I described it as spilled slime.
Here I was, frantically trying to return the contents to its original container and no matter how hard I tried, it lingered.
Grief has no blueprint, no timeline.
It’s messy and ugly and nonsensical.
It does not wield to your plans or box.
It takes its time and you are merely a companion to it.
Many try to escape its grasp- be it denial, alcohol or busyness.
Others drown in it.
And then there’s me- failing to recognize it for what it is.
Well, hello grief.
I relinquish my need to control.
I let you take your time.
I identify you.
I respect your process.
And I walk with you
Until you move along.
It is what it is.
Grief.
Camille Vaughan Photography
We were born 20 days apart with just 2 houses sitting between our own. My dad taught him how to swim; his dad taught me how to ride a bike.
We were always outside, waiting for the tell-tale whistle from his parents at dusk, letting us know it was time to come in for dinner and bed.
In our early teens, he would climb the tree in front of my house, clamber up the roof and knock. There was a landing just outside of my window and we would sit there, contemplating life until we were caught.
His parents had been married just shy of 45 years when his mom succumbed to cancer this past September.
The funeral was held in late October and just 5 days later, with the fragrance of the funeral flowers still permeating the living room, his dad passed away from sudden cardiac arrest, right into my friend’s arms. It was two days before their 45th anniversary and we all collectively knew, he had died from a broken heart.
My mother and I had wept during Mr. White’s eulogy for his wife. He spoke of their first date- when Mrs. White had invited him to lie underneath a Christmas tree to watch the twinkling lights.
Mr. White then compared those twinkling lights to the thousands upon thousands of prayers family and friends had sent up to God as cancer ravaged his beloved’s body.
And then, just like that, he was gone, too.
My friend and I stood in the kitchen where he had administered CPR to his dad, just hours before and we hugged, screamed and sobbed. At 39 years-old we still felt like children, never ever having been in his parents’ house without them there.
Shocked and numb, I drove away, contemplating the loss.
Mr. White’s eulogy had been full of love and awe for his wife and the life they had shared.
And I wondered,
“What is a well-lived life?”
Have I lived one?
Am I living one?
In this distracted day-in-age, it feels all too easy to lose sight of the most important part of life:
Our connection to others.
And if that is the meaning of life,
Then I’ve lived it well.
Let us all lie under the Christmas tree and watch the twinkling lights.
New Leaf Parenting 